The De Wael house sat in uneasy stillness. Downstairs, servants moved softly, clearing away the remnants of a supper that had felt more like pretense than peace. Margriet's laughter had carried too brightly through the hall; she had spoken of future contracts, of Floris's fine manners, as if a match already sealed. Jeroen had answered little, his gaze fixed on the fire, the lines at his temple deepening with every mention of the van den Berg name.
From her chamber above, Katelijne heard the low murmur of their voices ebb and fade. The house was not calm, only waiting—balanced on some invisible edge.
On her desk lay Joseph's note. She had unfolded and refolded it so many times the paper had gone soft at the edges, the ink blurred beneath her thumb.
Tonight, St Andries. One last meeting before the Carnival ends.
No flourish, no plea—only those few words, beating through her like a pulse.
She traced the letters again, memory rising: his laughter by the river, the warmth of his hand, the whisper that he would come for her again. She believed he had meant it—yet as the clock marked the slow crawl of evening, doubt pressed close.
Her mother's voice whispered: A lady does not chase a man through shadows.
Her father's followed: Reputation, once spent, cannot be earned again.
But over them came Joseph's: No masks, no names—just you.
The thought of him waiting alone in the square struck through her fear like light through glass. She pictured his grin, his breath clouding in the cold, the tumble of hair at his collar. If she stayed and he waited—what then? If she went and he did not—what then?
The clock struck ten. The sound sealed her choice.
Katelijne rose, taking her cloak from its peg. The coarse wool smelled faintly of woodsmoke from the barn dance. She pinned it at her throat, tucked her hair beneath the hood, and glanced toward the mirror. Her reflection looked pale and uncertain, yet alive—no longer the dutiful girl stitching lace by candlelight, but someone braver, reckless, real.
She folded the note and slipped it into her sleeve, close to her wrist, so she might feel its weight as she walked. Then she opened her door and listened.
The corridor lay dark. A draught carried the scent of the dying fire below. Barefoot, she moved down the stair, silent as breath. The great clock chimed the quarter hour as she reached the back hall.
One last glance toward the restless house—then she lifted the latch and stepped into the winter night.
Antwerp had never seemed so vast, nor so silent.
The revelry that had shaken the streets hours before had sunk to faint echoes — a snatch of song from a tavern, the thud of a distant drum fading on the wind.
Katelijne kept to the shadows, cloak hood drawn low, her steps quick and light on the cobbles. The air smelled of doused torches, spilled ale, and smoke — the sour perfume of Carnival spent. Lanterns guttered in doorways, throwing thin halos across the frost.
Bunting hung limp above the market square, and a paper mask, wet and trampled, caught at her hem. She shook it free, heart tightening.
With every turn she rehearsed what she might say when she found him. You shouldn't have come. Or I couldn't stay away. Both felt foolish — too small for the ache that had driven her here. She wanted only to see him, to tell him that since the dance she had not been the same.
A drunk lurched from an alley, singing. She slipped into the dark until he passed, clutching her cloak close. A shiver ran through her — part fear, part exhilaration. What would her mother say, if she could see her daughter now, chasing a fool through the night? Yet her feet did not falter.
At last the spire of St Andries rose above the roofs, pale and ghostly through the mist. The square below was still, the stalls shuttered, the cobbles glazed with frost.
She stopped at its edge, breath misting in the cold. For a heartbeat she almost turned back. Then she thought of Joseph waiting — of the hurt in his eyes if she never came — and the hesitation broke.
She crossed the square and stood beside the well, pulse hammering, the world narrowed to her own quick breathing.
The church loomed above her, its tower lost in fog. Somewhere a dog barked, then fell silent. She waited.
The bell of St Andries struck eleven.
Katelijne started at the sound, its deep toll rippling through the square before fading into silence again. The mist had thickened, curling around the church steps and swallowing the far side of the market. Her fingers had gone numb inside her gloves.
She had been waiting longer than she meant to. First standing, then pacing, then standing again. Each sound — a cart wheel turning, a door closing, a burst of laughter from some distant tavern — made her lift her head, certain it was him. And each time, the street was empty.
He will come. The thought began as faith, then thinned into hope, then only habit. She pressed her palms together for warmth, staring at the pale breath that rose and vanished before her.
When at last the church bell marked the half hour, her courage began to fray. Perhaps he had been delayed — a wrong turn, a watchman's patrol, a promise he could not break. Or perhaps he had simply chosen not to come.
The thought pierced sharper than the cold.
She remembered the riverbank, the laughter in his eyes, the way he had said no masks, no names — just you. Had it meant so little? Had she imagined it all — the gentleness in his touch, the tremor in his voice when he'd said her name?
A shutter banged somewhere nearby, and she flinched. The square was nearly empty now; even the stray dogs had vanished. The frost glittered on the cobbles like scattered glass.
She turned once more toward the street from which he should have come. Still nothing. Only the faint creak of a sign swinging above a tavern door.
At last she drew her cloak tighter and let out a long, unsteady breath. 'Fool,' she whispered — she wasn't sure if she meant him or herself.
Her feet felt heavy as she turned toward home.
Behind her, the church loomed — silent, watchful, indifferent. The note in her sleeve seemed to burn against her wrist, its promise hollow now, the ink fading like a jest told too late.
Katelijne turned from the church, the silence pressing so thick it seemed to follow her. Her feet felt heavy on the cobbles, each step a dull echo of all she had hoped for and lost.
The streets had grown colder still. A mist crept low along the ground, blurring the edges of the houses, swallowing her breath. Somewhere, a tavern door slammed; laughter spilled out for a heartbeat, then faded again.
She walked quickly now, half from fear, half from shame. Every corner seemed to whisper fool, every shadow to hold a watching face. How easily she had believed — in his words, in herself, in something beyond duty.
At the corner by the apothecary she paused, gripping the wall for balance. Her gloved hand brushed the rough stone, and she felt the folded note beneath her sleeve — the same words that had drawn her out into the night. She took it out, stared at it a long moment, then let the wind tug it from her fingers.
The paper fluttered down the alley, caught in the frost, and lay still.
By the time she reached home, dawn had begun to pale the sky. The bells rang Prime as she slipped through the servants' door, her heart as cold as the morning air.
By the time Katelijne reached the De Wael house, the lamps along the quay had burned to dull embers. Her shoes were damp, her cloak rimed with frost, her breath still quick from the walk. She slipped through the gate, each hinge a protest in the stillness.
Inside, the hall was dark save for a faint glow from the hearth. The air held the chill of a fire long since gone out. She shut the door softly and stood listening — no footsteps, no voices, only the slow tick of the clock above the stairs.
Her fingers were stiff as she unpinned her cloak. It smelled of fog and cold stone, of waiting too long. She glanced down at her empty hands and felt a hollow pang where the note should have been. Somewhere in the square the wind had taken it — her one proof that he had meant to come.
Perhaps it was better so. Words were only air, after all.
She crossed to the window. The glass was clouded, reflecting her pale face back at her: a girl out past curfew, a fool chasing ghosts. Behind her, the carved saints on the mantle seemed to watch in mute judgment.
She almost laughed. They could not scold her more harshly than she scolded herself.
Upstairs a board creaked — her father stirring early, or a servant rising for the morning fire. Katelijne climbed the stairs lightly, each step careful. She did not sleep; she only lay still, watching the light creep through the shutters until it turned the room to grey.
By dawn, she had decided there would be no talk of vanished fools or empty squares. She would be what her family expected: composed, dutiful, silent.
The knock at the front door came mid-morning. Margriet's delighted voice floated up the stair, bright as bells.
When Katelijne descended, Floris van den Berg stood in the hall — cloak heavy with frost, a bouquet of winter roses in one hand, and a smile smooth as glass.
'Mistress De Wael,' he said, bowing low. 'I come to invite you to the Burgermeister's masquerade. It would honour me if you would attend as my guest.'
For a moment, no one spoke. The scent of the roses filled the hall — sweet and cloying, out of place in the winter chill.
Margriet recovered first. 'Master van den Berg! How thoughtful,' she cried, sweeping the bouquet from his hands. 'The Burgermeister's ball will be glorious — and how fitting that you escort our Katelijne.'
Floris smiled. 'It would be a dull spectacle without her.'
Katelijne lowered her gaze, murmuring thanks, though the words caught in her throat.
Jeroen appeared from his study, his expression measured. 'Early abroad, Floris.'
'Business calls me from Antwerp soon,' Floris said smoothly. 'I hoped to pay my respects — and to ask if Mistress Katelijne might attend the masquerade as my guest.'
'If she wishes it,' Jeroen said.
Katelijne met her father's eyes, surprised by the faint gentleness there. Yet Floris waited, certain, smiling. The choice had already been made.
'I would be honoured,' she said quietly.
'Then I shall call for you at dusk,' Floris replied, bowing low before taking his leave.
The door closed. Margriet turned, glowing. 'Do you hear that, my love? You will outshine them all.'
Katelijne smiled faintly. 'Yes, Mother.'
But the perfume of the roses lingered heavy in the air, and beneath its sweetness she tasted dread.